y one of my old comrades. And yet I would not--I
could not--answer it.

"I can't say," I replied, as shortly as possible, and rising at the same
time to leave the room.

He prevented me by a quick gesture, which almost ordered me not to go,
and I resumed my seat.

"You wonder why I ask the question?" said he, slowly.

"I think," said I, "it would be best to ask it of Jack himself."

Mr Smith said nothing, but sat brooding silently for a minute. Then he
said, in a tone which sounded as if he was asking the question of
himself rather than me, "Who is the Mrs Shield he writes to?"

He spoke so queerly and looked so strangely that I half wondered whether
he was not wandering in his mind.

"Please," said I, "do not ask me these questions. What is the matter
with you, Mr Smith?"

"Matter, my boy!" said he, with a bitter laugh; "it's a big question you
ask. But I'll tell you if you'll listen."

I repented of having asked the question, he looked so haggard and
excited. However, there was nothing for it but to sit still while he,
pacing to and fro in the room, told me his story in his own way.

"This is not the first time you have been curious about me, Batchelor.
You have suspected I was or had been something different from the poor
literary hack you see me, and you have been right, my boy."

He stopped short in his walk as he said this, and his eyes flashed, just
as I had sometimes seen Jack's eyes flash in the old days.

"Sixteen--no, seventeen--years ago I was the happiest man alive. I can
see the little cottage where we lived, my wife and child and I, with its
ivy-covered porch and tiny balcony, and the garden which she so prided
in behind. It seemed as if nothing could come and disturb our little
paradise. I was not rich, but I had all I wanted, and some to spare. I
used to walk daily across the field to--where the bank of which I was
manager was situated, and they--she and the boy--came to meet me every
evening on my return. I felt as if my life was set fair. I could
picture no happiness greater than our quiet evenings, and no hope
brighter than a future like the present."

Here Mr Smith paused. This picture of a happy home he had drawn with a
dreamy voice, as one would describe a fancy rather than a reality.
After a pause he went on:

"The thing I thought impossible happened suddenly, fearfully, while I
was even hugging myself in my prosperity and happiness. She died. A
week before she had